


Playing Cards

by summercarntspel



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Bottom George, Bottom Paul (mentioned), Established McLennon, First Time, M/M, Top Ringo, literally just smut, mentioned fighting, sorry - Freeform, very little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summercarntspel/pseuds/summercarntspel
Summary: What happens when George and Ringo need a distraction from John and Paul's behavior and playing cards isn't cutting it?





	Playing Cards

**Author's Note:**

> HI THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING BEATLES SMUT IN SO LONG WOWZA.
> 
> I got inspo for this out of nowhere because I'm back on my Beatles bullshit hardcore.
> 
> This might be OOC because I'm out of practice but it's whatever because we're really out here ladies and we're back for fun. It also isn't BETA'd so if anyone wants to, like, do that for future fics, please lmk.
> 
> (more notes at the end)

“Ah… got any twos?”

“Go fish.”

“Damn!”

George popped his cigarette back between his lips and puffed at it, drawing a card from the pile.

He and Ringo had been playing cards since they got back to their hotel suite after that afternoon’s press conference. They were in an off week between shows, taking a vacation of sorts, but the group was still set to make appearances somewhere just about every day of the trip. When they got back that afternoon, John and Paul immediately shut themselves off in one of the bedrooms to work out some kinks in a song they began writing the day before. That quickly boiled over, as it usually did, and George and Ringo figured they should do what they always did when the others fought—they found a deck of cards and shuffled through every game they knew how to play.

They sat cross-legged on the floor next to the coffee table and Ringo fished out a deck of cards from the pocket of his jacket, resting nearby. They’d managed to get through a game of gin rummy, three rounds of war, a half-arsed game of poker, and were now onto Go Fish. John and Paul were still fighting behind the closed door, and the insults they were slinging back and forth were getting louder. George was waiting for them to quiet down and make up so he could hear himself think again.

“George, ye’ve asked me for twos three turns in a row,” Ringo said, a lopsided smile crossing his face, “And ’ve not gone fishin’ yet. What’s ‘at tell ya?”

George opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, the distinct sound of paper being torn forcibly flooded out of the bedroom, followed by John’s tight, angry voice.

_“It’s not my bloody fault you don’t know how to write a fuckin’ song, Princess!”_

_“I s’pose you could do better yourself, then!”_

_“Aye!”_

_“Aye? Sod off!”_

George took a deep drag from his cigarette and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t know how I’m ‘sposed to focus with that shite going on,” he complained, dropping his hand onto the table and pushing himself up to his feet.

Ringo grabbed a crumpled pack of ciggies laying abandoned on the table and lit one with his Zippo, taking a drag before he tipped his head back and blew the smoke up in a foggy cloud.

“You wanted to play, lad,” the older of the two stated simply, “I said we ought to go ‘ave a drink at the bar downstairs.”

George, whose mind had, in fact, drifted to wanting a drink, poured himself a bit of whisky from a bottle Mal had managed to sneak past Brian, then offered the bottle to the drummer.

“Aye, ‘m sure that would have gone well,” George mused, taking a sip, letting the warmth of the alcohol burn down his throat before he took another drag off his cigarette, “Too many of the girlies know where we’re stayin’. We’d get mobbed.”

Ringo unscrewed the lid and took a bottle from the bottle itself, hissing at the taste, lit cigarette dangling easily between the fingers of his free hand. “Dunno about you, but I could use a good mobbin’ meself,” Ringo teased.

George was inclined to agree. They had been taking on this tour with a full-steam-ahead attitude, which didn’t leave much time for anything, let alone some private time with some lucky bird who caught his eye. He went to say as much, but was cut off with a thud from the bedroom.

_“You’re a fuckin’ child, Lennon!”_

_“Oi, and what are ye gonna do about it? Tell Mummy Brian on me?”_

George scowled and tipped the rest of his whisky back, drinking it down like a shot, and stubbed the smoldering butt of his ciggie out in the closest ashtray.

Watching him, Ringo leaned his head back against the sofa again, puffing at his cigarette as he studied his bandmate.

“Didn’t know it bothered y’ so much, Georgie,” he said, gesturing to the door, “They’re always at it. Y’know that.”

George shook his head.

“Didn’t say it bothered me, Ritch,” the guitarist corrected, moving to sit opposite him on the floor, “Just… Hard to focus, that’s all.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes and passed the bottle of whisky back and forth, taking sips and gulps, and George lit another cigarette. They listened to the argument swell, then very suddenly get quiet. Another thump was heard, but this one was different and distinct—a headboard bashing into the wall behind it.

George felt his cheeks flush and ducked his head, pretending to be enthralled with the stains on the ugly carpet under them. Anyone else might not have noticed, but Ringo caught him immediately.

“Ah, right, the fightin’ isn’t what gets you bothered,” the older chuckled, swallowing one more mouthful of whisky before he capped the bottle and set it down, hands folding innocently on the tabletop, “It’s the makin’ up.”

They heard a grunt, followed by a whispered command to be quiet, and George tugged at the collar of his shirt. It was suddenly too close to his skin and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Hmm,” Ringo continued, tapped his fingers against the table in an easy rhythm, “And t’think we thought your voyeur days were over once y’got laid, Georgie.”

The guitarist snapped his head up to glare at his friend, only to be confronted with a knowing grin that made the flush on his face crawl its way down his neck and up to the tips of his ears.

“’At’s not funny,” George said, shaking his head.

“Didn’t say it was,” Ringo defended, shaking his head, “’ve just noticed, y’know. Last time they got like this, y’went and hid out in Brian’s room for an hour. Thought y’might be, y’know, disgusted, but a’know better.”

George felt a sudden wave of nausea, not unlike the feeling he would get as a kid when he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He felt guilty and ashamed, but he still felt his ears perk up when more noises drifted from behind the closed door. Hushed tones and a creaking bedframe made him wish they were in a hotel with thicker walls. When he allowed himself to look up from the floor, he found Ringo staring at him. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, then held it between his fingers and chewed on his lower lip.

“’s’nothing wrong with it, y’know,” Ringo said easily, shrugging one shoulder up, “Yer not the only one… A’think they might do it on purpose.”

George got to his feet again and made for the door to the other bedroom, but was stopped by the sound of a groan and a shushing. He turned back to Ringo and watched the way the drummer casually crossed his legs at the ankle and looked up to him, arching an eyebrow.

“A’just wish… They don’t have’ta…” George stuttered, shaking his head, “It’s unfair, innit?”

Slowly, and with confidence George rarely saw in his best mate, Ringo stood up and stubbed out his cigarette, then made his way over to where George was standing by the door to the unoccupied bedroom.

“Mm, it’s unfair,” Ringo agreed, keeping just enough distance between himself and the other to not scare George off, “But we could make it a little more fair. If y’wanted.”

George frowned at that. He didn’t know if he liked the way Ringo was looking at him, and he didn’t know if he liked the way his belly stirred with interest.

“M’not queer.”

“Aye, and neither am I.” Ringo nodded, then raised a hand to gesture at the other bedroom, “They aren’t, but it doesn’t much matter to them, does it?”

George thought about this, leaning against the doorframe and letting himself look from the door of the occupied bedroom to Ringo’s eyes and back again. He tried to find something to argue with, but the drummer had a solid point, and he was nursing a delightful combination of just enough whisky to lower his inhibitions and a semi-erection already tenting the front of his trousers.

What kind of a man would he be to argue?

Instead, he said nothing. He quietly opened the door to the empty bedroom and moved inside, flicking on a lamp that lived on the table between the beds, and sat down. This was technically John and Ringo’s room, but he figured John wouldn’t be needing his bed at that moment.

Ringo followed him, kicking the door closed with a quiet click, and sat on the bed opposite George, the bed he had claimed the night before. He hunched forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at the younger boy with a fond smile.

“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” the drummer asked, tipping his own head to the side like a curious puppy, “You look like y’ve been sucking on a lemon.”

George blushed and actively relaxed his face, flashing Ringo a false smile he usually reserved for interviewers and fans who got too close. “Dunno,” the younger said softly, tongue peeking out to lick at smoke-chapped lips, “Just… dunno what t’do, I ‘spose. Not used to being, ah… inexperienced?”

Ringo nodded, then got to his feet with a sigh, standing in the space between the beds and beckoning for George to come to him.

“Right, well, we’ve all gotta start somewhere, don’t we?”

George stood and mirrored Ringo, still just far enough away to be outside of the drummer’s personal space, but only barely. He looked at his friend and squinted, genuine curiosity lighting up his eyes.

“You’ve…?” George asked, letting the question trail off in a way he hoped Ringo would understand.

To his credit, Ringo did. He shrugged in a noncommittal sort of way.

“’ve been at this stuff longer than you, remember.”

“Ah… A’know that. I just didn’t… You never told me…”

“Did’ya ever ask?”

“No… but ‘m askin’ now.”

Ringo just laughed and reached a hand out to ruffle George’s hair, letting his fingers rest gently against the nape of his neck and smiling when George didn’t flinch away from him.

“A’know enough,” Ringo assured him, using the side of his thumb to pet at the pronounced top knob of the other’s spine, “Y’d be in good hands, if y’want to be in ‘em.”

George considered this. Ringo, again, had some astonishing points, and he couldn’t find the will to say no.

“And y’won’t… y’know, do anything I, ah, don’t… want?”

“Scout’s honor.” Ringo held up three fingers on his spare hand in the scout salute.

George felt the corners of his mouth rising at this. “Y’weren’t a scout, ya git.”

“Nah, but I’m always prepared,” Ringo teased, moving his other hand up from the back of George’s neck to card through his hair, careful not to let his rings tug at it.

George tipped his head back and shivered. He felt that happy warmth pooling in his belly and stirring lower, and the fact that he was even willing to consider whatever it was they were considering had to mean something. And, if it didn’t, the second shiver that wracked through him at the sound of the headboard in the other room smacking against the wall certainly did.

The guitarist nodded, opening eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed, and locked onto Ringo’s gaze. It was familiar, and he trusted it, and his nerves were still there, of course, but they were settling down the longer they looked at one another.

Ringo brought his hand back down slowly, curling his fingers around the base of George’s neck again, and spoke to him in a soft, gentle voice that George had only heard him use when one of the band members was ill and needed to be comforted.

“Where d’you want to start?”

The question echoed through his head and he felt himself slip back into the mindset of the timid teenager who had been asked that same question in the back room of a pub the band had been playing at. He closed his eyes, then opened them again and reminded himself that he wasn’t that kid anymore, and he knew enough to hold his own.

“Should we, ah… kiss a bit?” George asked, unable to keep from smiling stupidly, both at the question and at who he was asking it to.

“D’ye want to?”

“D’you?”

“I’m on board for whatever y’want to do,” Ringo shrugged, “Wasn’t sure if you wanted this to be quick or, y’know, romantic, or…?”

George squashed down the instinctual want to remind Ringo that he wasn’t queer, and making it _romantic_ felt decidedly queer, and he bobbed his head, his smile turning a bit shy.

“A’want… to just do, y’know, something, and see… y’know?”

Ringo nodded in understanding and put his free hand on George’s shoulder, and brought himself a bit closer to the guitarist before he leaned in and pressed their lips together.

The first kiss was soft, gentle, and George was grateful for it. Ringo’s lips were soft—much less chapped than his own had to be—and he didn’t recoil at the feeling of their stubble brushing together. After a moment, they parted, and Ringo took a second to look into his eyes before he inhaled and leaned back in with a smile. Their lips met again, and it was instantly much more like the kisses George had grown used to. It was still sweet, sure, and Ringo was gentle with him, but there was an edge to it, a longing, an unspoken resolve to move further.

Ringo’s lips parted a bit and George felt the tip of the drummer’s tongue brush against his bottom lip, and from that moment, George knew he was gone. His nerves went out the window and he realized that while it was different than kissing a bird, it wasn’t that different. It helped to have a real connection with the person he was kissing, too, and he felt a pleasant spark at his lips, then relished in that feeling moving downward.

This kiss lasted longer, and by the time their separated, both were breathing raggedly. Ringo’s hands had begun clinging to George’s shoulders, and George didn’t fight the urge to rest his hands on the drummer’s hips, shivering at the difference in touching someone, in that way, who was decidedly _not_ female.

Ringo silently sat on the bed again, moving to stretch out, and looked at George with this lidded-eyes expression that made the guitarist nearly melt into the carpet. He’d never seen Ringo look like that before, and even though his brain was screaming that he still wasn’t queer, words like “beautiful” and “sexy” flashed through his mind.

George scrambled onto the bed a bit too quickly, and Ringo laughed in that fond, content way he did when George did something he found funny or endearing.

George laid beside him, and both moved to their sides, Ringo edging closer to George before he joined their lips again. Being horizontal made it feel more intimate, and George allowed himself to make the smallest of noises in the back of his throat. His hands came up to Ringo’s chest, skilled fingers easily popping open the first few buttons of the drummer’s shirt. This, he was used to. This was something he could handle.

Ringo moved to do the same, but was met with resistance when he remembered that George was wearing t-shirt instead of a button down. So, with all the grace of an annoyed toddler, Ringo pulled his mouth off of George and tugged at the collar of the shirt, his eyes looking exceptionally needy.

George nodded, moving to pull the shirt off, tossing it onto the floor carelessly.

While he did, Ringo deftly undid the rest of the buttons of his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders, then stripped himself of the undershirt he had been wearing underneath.

Content with this level of nakedness, at least for the moment, they moved back in to kiss again, this time harder, heavier than before. Within a few moments, Ringo was moving to lay against George, allowing their bare torsos to come together as he put a little weight into the frame of the body below him, and George hummed at the novelty of a firm chest pressing against his own.

They kissed languidly for some time. George allowed callused fingers to trace patterns on Ringo’s back and grab at the surprising sharpness of his hipbones, and Ringo crawled on top of the other man, sliding comfortably into the empty space George created when he spread his legs a bit. Ringo had been actively keeping their groins from coming into directly contact, but George started nipping at his lower lip in a way that made him squirm. He grew lazy in his plan to go as slowly as he could, and he rocked down into George with a single pump of his hips.

George froze for a split second, and Ringo, understandably, feared that he had just managed to end the whole thing. The drummer started to pull back, but George chased his lips and tongue, and long legs drew up slightly to wrap around Ringo’s thighs and pull him down. They collided again, and Ringo had to bite back a groan when he felt George’s length pressing into his thigh, very nearly brushing against his own erection.

The pair started grinding against each other, reminiscent of randy schoolboy days, and when George pulled away for long enough to suck in some much-needed air, Ringo began trailing his wet lips down George’s throat, hands crawling down his flank to settle against the front of his trousers. When unbuttoning each other’s trousers from that angle proved to be too much of a challenge, and a strain on the wrists, Ringo rolled off of the other man and quickly undid his fly, George doing the same. When they were left in nothing but their underwear, they moved close again.

George moved on top this time, and their noses brushed as he stared down into the familiar eyes beneath him. Ringo was tenting his pants quite a bit, and George felt a warm flush rush through his body when he realized what the solid thing prodding at his lower belly was.

“What now?” Ringo whispered, his voice still sounding too loud after not speaking for so long. He brought a hand up and stroked along George’s jawline with the cool stone of his index finger’s ring.

George leaned into the touch and felt his eyes flutter, grateful to have something cool and calming against his feverish skin, and swallowed so thickly it almost hurt.

“More,” he begged, pleaded, voice rough in a way so different to the way it got after a long recording session, and he rocked his hips down into Ringo’s.

The drummer grunted and rolled his own pelvis up in return, pushing against George for a moment, then lowered himself back down and leaned up to pepper little kisses along the guitarist’s neck again.

“I know,” he whispered into the skin there, pausing for a moment to let his lips work at the spot where he felt George’s rapid pulse, “Gotta tell me what y’want…”

Sighing, George lolled his head back, granting his best mate easier access to the spot he was suckling at.

“What’ve y’done with… y’know… before?”

Ringo thought back to some of his wilder adventures, nearly all of them taking place before he met the others, and shook his head with a quiet chuckle.

“Y’might not like it… s’not for ever’body.”

George’s blush doubled then, a mix of both arousal and embarrassment making him feel far too warm, and he curled his fingers into the waistband of Ringo’s pants. The drummer looked up at him, and George stared down into his eyes, his pupils blown.

“Could be f’me, though,” George said, his voice velvety and smooth, a tone he had certainly used on girls before but never on Ringo. He grinned when the drummer let out a heavy pant at the sound of it.

“Only if y’sure,” Ringo said. He tried to be stern, but his excitement bled into that and muddled it a bit.

George nodded, pushing his hips down against Ringo’s once more and wriggling against him for a second.

“Tell me what t’do, Ritchie.”

Ringo blushed at the pet name and he smiled, arching up to press one more solid kiss to George’s lips before he gently maneuvered the boy off of him.

George was instructed to lie back and get comfortable, and Ringo began rooting around in the draw of the bedside table. When he found what he was searching for, he made an audible sound of pleasure and turned back to George, setting down a small tub of Vaseline between them.

While George was expecting this, his eyes still went wide, and Ringo did his best to soothe him by caressing his thigh and smiling that soft, reassuring smile he often gave him when George got nervous before a big performance.

“We can turn back anytime,” Ringo told him, petting the downy hairs littered all over his upper thigh, “Y’just let me know.”

George nodded, then wiggled his hips against the mattress.

“C’mon, then,” the guitarist smiled nervously, gesturing to the pot, “I’ll tell y’if I want out, but I want in… or, ah, want _you_ in… or... _y’know_.”

The drummer laughed, an honest, happy laugh, and shook his head at the younger man.

“Right, well, good,” he said, patting George’s side tenderly. Ringo opened up the pot of Vaseline, then tipped his head at George, gesturing to his lower half. “D’you… Well, d’ya want to watch, or d’ya want to be flipped over?” He was hoping George would want to watch, at least to start, for selfish reasons—he wanted to see George’s reaction, and he wanted to see _George_.

The question made the younger Beatle furrow his brow in thought, then he shrugged, moving to sit up a bit against the over-stuffed pillow behind him.

“I… A’think I’d like t’watch,” George nodded, chewing on the inside of his lip again, “S’that alright? S’it odd?”

Ringo bobbed his head, then shook it.

“Nah, s’fine. I wanted to watch me first time, too.”

The image this conjured up made George bite down harder on his lip, and Ringo smirked when he noticed that George’s erection, which had noticeably softened a bit from the lack of attention, was very suddenly at full-mast again.

Not wanting to waste such a moment, Ringo leaned down and kissed George again, mouth gentle as he let his hands dance downward and tug on George’s pants. The younger rolled his hips up, and Ringo yanked the underwear down in one motion, allowing George to kick them off from where they pooled at his feet.

Ringo pulled back and looked down at the younger man, and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw that flush spreading across George’s cheeks again. The drummer let his gaze wander down George’s body, then he snapped his head back up. He’d seen all of his bandmates and various stages of undress before, but this was decidedly different.

“Y’ve nothin’ to be shy about,” Ringo breathed, a hand trailing down George’s torso.

The guitarist’s taut belly quivered at the attention, and when the ring on Ringo’s index finger brushed up his shaft, George let out a pleased hiss and threw his head back.

“Won’t last long if y’tease me,” George warned, eyes closed, mop of hair spread against the headboard behind him.

Ringo nodded.

He instructed George to pull his knees up, giving the exposed flesh of his backside a little tap of praise when he did so. George let out a nervous giggle, and Ringo followed suit with a bark of laughter of his own.

Once they both settled, Ringo slid the rings off of his left hand and dipped those fingers into the Vaseline jar. George was watching him with intense, needy curiosity, and Ringo was determined to make George believe he truly was in good hands.

“Now,” Ringo said, rubbing the slick stuff all over his fingers, making sure to coat three of the digits from tip to bottom knuckle, “S’not nice at first. But if s’not nice at all, tell me and we’ll stop an’ do somethin’ else.”

George nodded, swallowing hard again, and brought a hand up to give himself a few strokes, not wanting to let himself wilt with nerves that suddenly enveloped him again, stronger than before.

Using his clean hand, Ringo gently nudged George’s long fingers away, and offered him a pumps, grinning when George, like others before him, made a content purring sound at the feeling of the cold metal against such hot flesh. He kept the strokes even and rhythmic, matching with the sharp inhales of breath George was taking.

George, for his part, was in heaven. He’d had girls with rings on give him handjobs in the past, sure, but none were ever this confident in knowing exactly how to stroke him and none ever wore that many rings. He was fighting the urge to throw his hips up to meet the pumps of Ringo’s hand, and the moment he gave in, he felt a new sensation—a gentle, wet sort of stroking behind his bollocks and _up_.

“Ah…” the guitarist murmured, looking down at his exposed body, then up to the drummer and back down again.

“Yer alright,” Ringo hushed him, managing to keep up the pace of his hand on George’s length while his fingers danced delicately along the outer rim of George’s entrance, the tip of his middle finger gently prodding against the flesh, “A’promise you’re okay.”

They grew silent then, and George tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling and focus on the sensations, both familiar and new to him. Part of him worried that Ringo’s skillful work on his member would make this end far too soon, but when he felt the first finger push into his body, stopping at the second knuckle, he realized that didn’t seem like it would be much of a thing to worry about.

George grunted at the intrusion, fighting the instinct to _push_ , to get rid of the uncomfortable fullness and burning, but then Ringo did something delightful with the cold stone of one of his rings along the swollen head of George’s cock, making the guitarist too distracted to reject the finger that was now edging in deeper.

This kept up for several long minutes, and George felt his body grow accustomed to the new, strange feeling of being finger-fucked, first by one digit and then by two. He wondered idly if this is how those girls felt when he did it to them, but that thought left his mind when the tips of Ringo’s fingers brushed against something inside him and George, for the first time in his life, truly saw stars.

“Ah, fuck!” he swore, much louder than expected, eyes flying open. He looked down at Ringo, who was admiring his body in a way that made that blush return to his face, and tightened himself around the two fingers inside him. “What was ‘at?”

Ringo swiped his thumb across the head of George’s prick again, gathering a bead of fluid that had gathered there and gently massaging it into the sensitive spot where the crown met with the shaft. He smiled and flexed his fingers, brushing the spot again, and George went lax and swore again.

“Feels good, huh?”

George nodded tightly and felt the coil of his impending orgasm begin to constrict in his lower belly. He inhaled and puffed his cheeks out, then roughly let the trapped air out with a grunt.

“M’not gonna last,” the guitarist warned, curling his toes into the sheets beneath him, “Oh…”

Ringo bobbed his head. He spread his fingers a bit and gently pushed a third into the mix, giving George a second to adjust to the burn before he pulled his other hand off of George’s cock. The guitarist cried out in annoyance, and Ringo just grinned at him knowingly. With his now-free hand, Ringo pushed at his underwear, kicking them onto the floor with George’s before he turned to dig around in the nightstand.

“Y’don’t need one,” George whined, embarrassed by just how similar he sounded to all those birds who had insisted the same thing to him over the years, “C’mon, Ritchie, please…”

Ringo crooked his fingers and purposefully stroked against that spot inside George again, thoroughly distracting him for long enough to snag one of the condoms from a half-empty box. He tore it open with his teeth, careful to only rip the foil, and offered it to George.

“Put it on me?” the drummer asked, just this side of smug, a grin stretching across his face, “Me hands’re a bit busy.”

Too far-gone to care, George nodded, taking the condom and plucking it out of the wrapper. He reached for Ringo’s cock and struggled to roll it on from the angle he was attacking from, but managed to get it with some adjusting. Once it was secure, he looked up at the drummer and batted his eyelashes, his lower lip worried between his teeth.

“N’more teasin’,” the younger begged, feeling lightheaded with the way his groin pulsed, throbbed, “M’ready now.”

Smile turning soft, Ringo nodded again, pulling his fingers out and relishing in the delicious gasp George gave him in return. He rubbed the spare slickness on his cock, giving it a tug or two, and then looked down into the trusting brown eyes below him.

“Yer gorgeous,” he told George, voice soft and sincere.

George just blushed, though he wondered how it was possible to blush any further, and flashed him a smile. Delicately, George spread his legs, mirroring what he’d seen girls do for him, and Ringo had to laugh.

The drummed shimmed between George’s parted thighs and leaned down to kiss him again, still giving tugs to his cock. Once he had moved on to kissing and nipping at George’s jaw, he let his hands fall to the younger’s hips. He pushed them up, grabbing one of the spare pillows to shove under George to keep him in place. Cock back in his hand, he nudged forward, brushing his tip against George’s relaxed entrance.

“Keep breathin’ for me,” Ringo reminded his partner softly, jostling his hips a bit, “Ready?”

George took a deep breath in, then blew it out slowly, offering Ringo one final nod.

Ringo started to push, pausing when the crown of his cock finally managed to slide past the first ring of muscle, which tightened relentlessly against him in a way that made his head spin.

Panting, George let out a strangled noise from his throat, a little squeak making its way out through his teeth. His hands scrabbled at the bed below him, then moved to clasp around Ringo’s shoulders, needing something to attach to.

They stayed there, and they breathed. Ringo whispered simple, sweet words of praise to George, reminding him to breathe, that this was the worst part, that he was doing so good. Telling him it would be worth it, that it wouldn’t be so unfair anymore. George nodded and dug his fingers into Ringo’s shoulders. Ringo moved one of his hands from where it was holding George’s hip to his cock, not willing to let it start to deflate after they worked so hard to get it where it was.

When George had relaxed enough and gotten quite used to the fullness, Ringo rutted his hips forward, pushing in until he bottomed out inside the guitarist.

They took another moment to breathe.

Deciding that he was finished with waiting, George bore down, grunting when the feeling made Ringo groan, and he met the drummer’s eyes, his own gleaming with such genuine trust and arousal Ringo was sure he would never forget the look in them as long as he lived.

“Move,” George demanded, finally understanding what it meant when he had heard Paul whisper that in the dead of night in Hamburg, back in the days when Paul and John always shared one tiny bed, “P-please, _ah_ …”

So, Ringo moved. He thrust his hips in and out, and he laughed breathlessly when George caught the rhythm and started rocking with him. He stretched himself out to be able to reach George’s face to kiss him as they moved together, and George rewarded him by biting down on his lip so hard it nearly pierced the skin.

George moaned and grunted, letting out gurgling syllables the drummer never imagined he would hear the other make, and when Ringo snapped his hips at just the right angle, he wound up having to crash his mouth harshly against George’s to quiet down the resulting howl of pleasure.

They kept pace, moving together, moving in sync, and George felt himself shiver and quake, his mind going to an image of a guitar string being plucked.

“Oh… Oh, _Ritchie_ , ah…” George whined, his low voice reaching an octave not unlike his falsetto tones, “Christ, m’close… Gonna… _Oh_ …”

Ringo nodded, kissing George again and again, lips brushing against lips, nose, cheeks, chin, and sped his thrusts up just a bit, smiling stupidly when George matched him rut for rut.

“Shhh…” Ringo panted, still soothing, still wanting this to be the best experience George ever had, even if it was for entirely selfish reasons, “Ah… A’ll getcha there, love… I got ye…”

Ringo reached between their bodies again to stroke George’s cock, and that was all the stimulation George could handle. He let out a growl and tossed his head back against the pillow, shaking as he spent his load. He tightened himself around Ringo in pulses as wave after wave of orgasmic shock zapped through him, and Ringo found that he, too, couldn’t take anything more and grunted as he stilled his hips, filling the condom and collapsing on top of his very favorite guitarist.

They lied there for several moments, trying in vain to get their souls to come back into their bodies, and George allowed himself to bury his nose in Ringo’s sweaty hair, breathing heavily into it, smelling salt and shampoo and comfort.

After basking until his cock started to soften and feel incredibly uncomfortable in its current spot, Ringo pulled out, messy hand wiping itself on the sheets and clean one soothingly rubbing at George’s flank. He peeled the condom off and tied it, tossing it into the waste bin.

Grabbing a couple of tissues, Ringo mopped up first George’s stomach, then his cock, and turned to the sleepy, sated guitarist that was watching his every move with heavy eyes.

“Well,” Ringo said, his voice betraying his own exhaustion, “Still unfair?”

George smiled, a genuine smile that not many people got the chance to see, and reached for Ringo, letting out a happy sigh when the drummer snuggled in close to him.

“Very fair,” George decided, using a fist to rub at his tired eyes, “Could use a ciggie, though.”

Ringo laughed and reached for a pack on the table. He grabbed a cigarette and lit it, taking a drag before he offered it to George. They passed it back and forth quietly, taking deep pulls until they were satisfied, and Ringo stubbed it out in the ashtray.

George stretched, yawning as he nestled himself down further, tugging on a blanket.

“Sleeping ‘ere, are ya?” Ringo teased, moving to lie beside his mate, pulling the comforter up to their necks.

George just nodded, turning to bury his face in Ringo’s shoulder as he yawned again.

“Y’wouldn’t kick such a good lay out, would ye?” the guitarist mumbled.

Ringo laughed, wrapping his arms around George and giving him a squeeze, then settled them both down against the fluffy pillow.

“S’pose not, no.”

They drifted off to sleep quickly, both falling into a dreamless state, still clinging to one another under the blankets.

Neither woke until the following morning, when John came to the room for his towel, intent on taking a shower.

“Oi!” John said in surprise, turning to stick his head out the door and call for Paul before he turned back to the others, both still half asleep and bleary-eyed. “What’s this?”

George grunted something at him and flipped him off, nuzzling himself into Ringo’s neck and closing his eyes again.

John pushed the door open further and let Paul peek in.

Paul just grinned and shook his head, eyes locking onto Ringo’s.

“What ‘appened ‘ere, then?” the bassist asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

Ringo tugged George closer, dropping a kiss to the side of his head, and shrugged one shoulder up, smirking at his bandmates.

“Well, we were playing cards…”

**Author's Note:**

> FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT USE VASELINE AS LUBE IT IS A BAD IDEA BUT IT IS PERIOD-APPROPRIATE.
> 
> The line where Ringo says he wasn't a scout but is always prepared comes directly from an episode of M*A*S*H so I hope 20th Century Fox doesn't come to my house and punch me in the face.
> 
> Also I tried to keep the dialect-specific bits of dialogue consistent but who's to say if it comes across properly. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
